Left
by the Common Denominator
Summary: Peter has to be away from the office for a while, and comes back to find his partner changed.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Story is set in the summer, for reasons that will become obvious. Rated for violence and language, on the safe side. No particular pairing intended.

* * *

Peter looked up at the window-plated front of headquarters and gave a lopsided smile, surprised he'd actually missed the place. He'd been on plenty of vacations and special operations before, but the three-week takedown of a violent smuggling and counterfeiting ring had been a grind like nothing else. It had cost hours of stakeouts, interrogating witnesses and running down leads, but as a senior representative of the white collar division, he'd been one of the few agents trusted to be a part of the operation that could be spared for that length of time. He'd taken extra precautions, taking the subway to and from work, staying in motels during the week, and trying to be seen with El in public as little as possible, just in case. He knew it was probably unnecessary, but he never would have been able to focus on the case if he'd been worried about her safety more than he already was. It had been a long time since he'd kissed her like he did the night after they'd finally busted the whole ring. The weekend after hadn't been so bad, either, but now it was time to get back to the daily job he'd known and loved for years.

Contact with El wasn't the only communication to lapse during the intense investigation. He hadn't spoken to Neal since the conman had told him to "break a leg" with a cheeky grin and tipped his hat as Peter drove away, leaving him on June's doorstep, three weeks prior. He wasn't sure what Neal had been up to since he'd been gone, but every time he thought of the younger man over the course of the operation he'd been praying the felon hadn't done something to jeopardize his relationship with the FBI. Peter knew Neal was more than capable of doing some serious damage and then running for it, successfully, and sometimes wondered if it was only respect for Peter's track record that kept him from taking the opportunity to cut the leash and make a break for it. But he knew if Neal had run, even on an operation as important as busting the ring, he would have been called. So Peter was cautiously optimistic that he'd find Neal right back in the office waiting for him.

He found Jones, Lauren and Hughes instead.

"Good to have you back, Peter," Hughes said firmly, shaking his hand. "These two were miserable without you."

"I'm sure that had nothing to do with being under your direct supervision, sir," Peter said, with a lopsided smile. Hughes rolled his eyes while Jones and Lauren gave him looks that said "It had everything to do with that" with the least amount of insubordinance possible.

"Well, you're still stuck with me while Burke plays catchup on the cases he missed," Hughes snorted to them. "Files are on your desk, Peter, come see me when you finish them."

Jones grinned clasped his shoulder briefly. "We missed you, boss."

"Seriously." Lauren hugged him. "It's been forever."

"Missed you too," Peter replied, smiling. "All those senior agents on that op, it was like a pack of angry old dogs sometimes. Nice to be away from that mess of divisions. Hey, speaking of annoying situations, where's Caffrey?"

"He's been working with the organized crime division while you've been gone," Jones explained. "Caffrey didn't run with any crime families, but he sure knows a hell of a lot about them, and most of those guys are involved with some kind of fraud Caffrey's skilled in. He's in the custody of some guy named Grant Robertson – he should be back sometime this afternoon."

"Joy," Lauren said, rolling her eyes, but she was grinning. Then Hughes called from the conference room, and she turned to leave, saying, "We'll talk to you at lunch, okay? Welcome back, boss."

Peter nodded, still smiling at her and Jones as they followed Hughes back towards his office. Then he sighed and turned to the stack of files on his desk. It had to be at least five inches thick. He planned on giving half of them to Neal to peruse as soon as the conman was back in the bullpen. For the next hour he worked steady through an extremely tedious check forgery case and an exciting but short-living art theft. Then the text of the next file caught his eye. It wasn't a casefile – it was an OPR report, citing the reprimand of one consultant, Neal Caffrey, that resulted in the restriction of said consultant's tracking device to a half-mile radius, as opposed to its previous two miles.

"You gotta be kidding me," Peter groaned aloud, and sat down to read the report. When he was done, he was livid. The report stated events in straight, damning facts. One Neal Caffrey, consultant and felon in custody of one FBI Agent Robertson, had been left in the agency car while Robertson obtained some witness statements at an apartment building in the Bronx. While Agent Robertson was in the apartment, Caffrey attempted to hotwire the car. He apparently failed, and tried to flee on foot. Robertson caught him in the parking lot and returned him to the office to face charges of attempting to flee FBI custody.

Somehow, in light of the amount of good work Caffrey had done for the agency, it had been decided that for the moment he would simply be kept on a shorter leash. Peter exhaled slowly. Neal had clearly dodged a bullet on this one – Robertson must have had a soft spot for the felon, just like Peter.

Not soft enough, though, to keep him from giving Neal hell for this, Peter decided. It was one thing to be worried that Neal would finally decide to run for it while Peter was away, but it was another to think he would do something as stupid as try to hotwire a federal car and then run for it, anklet and all. But the report wouldn't lie, Peter knew, so Neal had better have a good explanation for what possessed him pull an idiot move like that. No matter what, he was getting a serious rant the moment he stepped in to the office. Because – though Peter would never admit this to himself – it scared the older agent to think he might lose his friend and all the promise of their budding partnership just because he couldn't stand to wait in the car for a few hours.

It was nearing two o' clock when the elevator dinged and Neal stepped out, following an agent Peter assumed must be from the organized crime division. The agent was a few inches taller than Neal, with a square-cut jaw, neatly parted blond hair, and a direct, gray gaze. He moved with authority, and Neal walked a step behind him, his eyes trained on the agent. Even in their short walk into the office and to Peter's desk, it was clear that the agent had found some way to get Neal to respect him, something Peter was grateful for. He wondered why the agent hadn't to hung Neal out to dry, but decided not to ask. Just because he was itching to tear Neal a new one didn't mean he wanted to get the conman in any more hot water by bringing up his reprimand.

The agent reached Peter's desk and extended a hand.

"Agent Grant Robertson," he said. "Here to turn over custody of Caffrey."

"Peter Burke." Peter's gaze flicked to Neal as he shook the man's hand. He looked as groomed as ever, but he was studying the nearest desk at the moment, ignoring both agents. Peter inwardly rolled his eyes. Clearly, the moment was too humbling for the great Neal Caffrey to observe. He prayed Robertson wasn't about to tell him Neal was headed back to jail. "Well, I hope he wasn't too much of a handful."

"We had some issues to start off with, but we worked them out" Robertson said casually. Peter raised his eyebrows at the man's serious, impassive face, but that seemed to be all.

"Well, hats off to you, Agent Robertson," he replied with inward relief. "Anything else you need me or Caffrey for?"

Robertson pulled a file from his briefcase. "Just sign off on the custody form, and I'll be headed back uptown."

Peter signed it and handed it back to Robertson, who still hadn't smiled. The other agent tucked the file back into his briefcase and left without a word to Neal. As soon as the elevator door closed, Peter raised a suspicious brow to his estranged partner.

Neal turned to him with a broad grin and gripped his shoulder. "Peter. Can't tell you how glad I am to see you."

Peter returned the action but dropped his hand quickly, face stern. "I would have said the same a couple hours ago. Sit."

The smile faded from Neal's face as he slid into Peter's seat. A removed, less angry part of Peter noticed he moved with less grace than usual, hands landing clumsily in his lap. He kept his eyes on Peter's face with a nervous intensity that was foreign to the senior agent. All this was secondary, though, to the fact that Neal was still acting like he didn't know why Peter was giving him this sort of welcome.

"Neal, I trusted you to be mature enough to work professionally with another division while I was gone," he began gravely. Neal lowered his eyes immediately, which disconcerted Peter. He'd been expecting a fight. Still, he continued. "And I come back to find you'd run into trouble for hotwiring a car? You owe me better than that, Neal."

Neal was looking at his hands and didn't say anything.

"I thought, after everything we worked for, you would at least have more self-control."

No answer, though Neal's posture seemed a little stiffer.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" Peter pressed. Neal's lack of response was making him feel foolish – like a parent lecturing a child, rather than a superior grilling his coworker. And he knew Neal was hardly the shy, submissive type, which made his attitude all the more irritating. Was he trying to sulk? What was he, ten? Sharply, Peter snapped, "Neal."

Neal flinched. His shoulders jerked, his eyes went wide and flew up to meet Peter's face, and he nodded rapidly.

"Words would be good," Peter said dryly, not buying the dramatic show of fear.

"I'm sorry," Neal said, voice vaguely hoarse. "It won't happen again."

"Cut the crap, Neal." Peter was losing patience. Neal might be able to give him those pleading baby blues and slip away from his wrath is lesser circumstances, but this was important. "You never do anything without some reason, no matter how ridiculous that reason is. What possessed you to do something so stupid?"

"It was hot," Neal finally said in a low voice. "I couldn't wait any longer. Broke out. That's it."

Peter stared at the conman in disbelief. The younger man's gaze was fixed on a point over his shoulder, his mouth set in a tight line. He had nothing more to say. Somehow, Peter was angrier at the end of this conversation than before. Neal's answer was pathetic, and he knew it. But he was going to stick with it, rather than try to explain himself to the one man he claimed to trust. Peter shook his head in disgust.

"I expected more of you, Neal," he said firmly. "When you're ready to come clean with whatever really happened, let me know. Until then, I want you to go over every single one of those mortgage fraud cases."

Neal moved to the pile Peter indicated, his expression wooden. As he passed the senior agent on his way to a free desk, Peter heard the strangest thing. It was almost so soft he missed it, and spoken like a habitual, unconscious addition, but it was Neal, saying, "Yes, sir."

Peter spent the rest of the afternoon getting very little work done, the conversation with Neal playing over and over again in his head. He wondered how the hell his excitement at a reunion with his favorite felon had turned into this ugly mess. Part of him did feel guilty for not at least welcoming Neal back first, because thanks to his frosty reception, no one else in the office had dared come over to Neal to say hi and tell the conman he'd been missed. But the rest of him was hurt that Neal refused to be straight with him, and was playing some awkward, childish game instead. Come closing time, Peter didn't offer Neal a ride home and Neal didn't ask

---

Peter found that the lack of Neal's presence spoiled the first journey on his regular route since three weeks prior. The empty seat next to him weighed on his mind, so that by the time he'd pulled up to his home, he couldn't wait to lose himself in Elizabeth's arms. He opened the door and made a beeline for the dining room, only to freeze when he found they had a visitor.

June was seated at the table, a cup of tea and a few of his wife's best cookies laid out in front of her. By the looks of it, she hadn't touched either. Her face was taut with worry, and she stood up the moment she saw him, grasping his hand with her soft, weathered touch.

"Peter," she said, tension evident in her normally cultured tones. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your dinnertime, but I think we need to talk about Neal. It's very important."

"Of course, June," he said seriously. Elizabeth walked out of the kitchen with two more cups of tea, and kissed him on the cheek. He gave her a grateful smile. "Why don't we all sit down?"

June nodded, and they took their seats. Elizabeth took Peter's hand, and they turned to the older woman expectantly.

She sighed. "I don't think that it's really my business to be telling you this. But I knew that Neal wouldn't tell you himself. He didn't even tell me, really – I had to dust off some old favors from… friends to find the whole story."

"Of what?" Peter asked, trying not to sound too impatient. El squeezed his hand.

June raised an eyebrow. "To you, Peter, I think it's the story of why Neal hotwired an FBI car." Peter's jaw tightened in anger. "But to me, it's the story of why he came home one night six hours late, stumbling through the door with a bruise on his cheek and bandages around his wrists."

_What?_

June fixed her eyes on Peter's. "I know it from Byron's rougher times, Peter – he moved like he'd been beaten. He tried to tell me it was just a violent witness, but I knew better. He was frightened to go back to work the next day, though he would have died before telling me, of course."

Peter was poleaxed. "Someone in the FBI hurt Neal?"

"Someones," she replied with steel in her voice. "Although one man in particular was responsible, I believe. Now, once I'd gotten an official account of the events that day – the same one I imagine you have, Peter, about the attempt to flee? – the first hint something was wrong was simple arithmetic."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, some of his shock fading into confusion.

"It was a record heat wave that day." June spoke more gently, remembering how painful it was to hear this for herself the first time. "Robertson's log said after he left Neal, he was away from the car for hours. What if he didn't leave a window open?"

It hit Peter like a thunderbolt, and he started to feel sick. "Neal said it was hot…"

"It would get to over a hundred in less than an hour," Elizabeth whispered. Peter looked at her in surprise, and she explained, "My friend never leaves her kids in the car in the summer. She's always quoting that statistic. I always though it was stupid. Who would leave someone like that…" She trailed off, chin trembling.

"Those cars can't be unlocked from the inside, if the perp locks are on – keeps suspects from escaping," Peter said automatically. "He'd have to hotwire the car just to get out."

"I'm afraid it's worse than just the locks," June said quietly. "Robertson is… very good at his job, but that means he doesn't trust criminals, ever. He didn't let Neal keep a cell phone on him, in case he was going to try to set up an ambush. And he didn't allow Neal to ride in the car without handcuffs in case he ever tried to grab the wheel. According to another… friend… he always puts handcuffs on far too tight."

"That's why he had bandages on his wrists?" Elizabeth asked, horrified. "From handcuffs? How?"

"Heat exhaustion makes it rather hard to think clearly, and Neal would have already known his situation was desperate," June explained. Her already usual regal bearing was ramrod-straight. "He didn't have anything with which to pick the cuffs – Robertson was too good at searching him and keeping the car clean, I believe. He had to try to slip them off…. At least, that's the only conclusion I can come to from this."

She pulled from her purse a four by six photograph, marked on the back as belonging to Neal's medical file. It showed two wrists against the white of an exam table, ragged lacerations wrapping around each of them, the right thumb swollen purple and distorted.

"He dislocated it," Peter said hollowly. "He had to break his own thumb. Damnit, Neal…"

Elizabeth gripped his hand reassuringly, but her own eyes were overbright.

June exhaled slowly and finished in a quick, clipped tone, "It seems they took him to a hospital, just to document no permanent damage had been done. That's where they took the photo. He had to stay for an IV of fluids – the hospital refused to release him otherwise – but the moment they could sign him out AMA, they did. Somewhere in all that, our Neal was beaten. He still wouldn't tell me where or how, but I - " June's voice finally trembled, and she had to break off for a moment. She raised a hand to her forehead. "I kept after him until he let me clean him up, just like I used to for Byron. Oh, Peter, his whole front was black and blue, and his shoulders were bruised, like he'd been held while they hit him. The worst part was that he – well, it was like he was ashamed to show me, as though it was something he'd been used to dealing with on his own." June gave a deep, weary sigh. "That's all I came to tell you, Peter."

The clocked ticked away several silent minutes. Peter swallowed hard, replaying once again his greeting to Neal that morning, but this time every word he'd spoken in anger filled him with guilt. Neal had tried to tell him, but he hadn't listened. All he could think to say was, "I'm going to kill Robertson."

* * *

**A/N:** I'm a lazy, lazy person, so I won't judge you if you don't leave your comments/criticisms/favorite color. But I will love you if you do!

I especially enjoy if you manage to catch typos I've missed - it's like someone telling you that you have chocolate on the corner of your mouth. Terribly embarrassing, but you're so glad they told you rather than let you continue to look like a fool. Suggestions on formatting wouldn't hurt either - I'm new to that.

For the record, this was written long before 1 x 13, and I'm a little jealous they got to the "Neal having to work with another agent" plot before I did. But I like the episode so much that I really can't complain. Not that I would really have any grounds to do so to begin with, but you know how it is... off to watch the finale!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: Thank you so much for your amazing reviews! Best motivation ever. This was originally intended to be just a two-shot, but I decided to flesh out this section a little more thanks to your comments and interest.

Also, it seems the major favorite color is blue, and the theme of this website is blue. Coincidence? I think not...

* * *

Neal leaned against the French windows of his room and looked out at the glittering night city. Usually the expanse of twinkling lights inspired him, but for once in his life, he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do now. He couldn't go back to jail, but he couldn't face Peter, not after their disastrous reunion.

One thing he did know: he blamed the head of the organized crime division for starting it all by pairing him with Agent Grant Robertson.

Neal could appreciate the basic logic – receive incredibly infamous criminal on loan, give to best agent in department to use. All three of the agents who had been his handlers – Peter, Rice, and Robertson – shared a deep commitment to the job and significant standing in their departments, so he supposed that association made sense. Still, it had taken him less than an hour with Robertson to realize the partnership was a dangerous idea. Part of the reason the straitlaced FBI agent was good at his job was that he placed people into strict categories. Good guys – the FBI and the victims of the crimes he tried to solve and prevent. Bad guys – the people who perpetrated those crimes. No middle ground. From Robertson's frown when they were introduced, Neal surmised he had fallen into the latter category. From the agent's refusal to give Neal any more details of their latest case than he deemed "explicitly necessary," Neal surmised he wouldn't be getting out of it any time soon.

Peter would have been proud – he did try to get along with Robertson. He was polite and reserved in conversation, and when he had down time, he made an effort to find things to like about this new situation. He saw the way Robertson was respected by his colleagues, and how his division was clearly an efficient and tight-knit unit. But the more he realized there was to appreciate about the division, the more he realized his presence was the total antithesis of everything they worked for. The field, out on the streets, was for gray areas and undercovers and snitches like Neal. The bullpen was a place for good guys only, and Neal stuck out like a sore thumb, tracking anklet and all. Any attempts at charming his way into their good graces simply reinforced how much he didn't belong. No wonder no one ever asked him if he wanted coffee.

For the first week, Neal was by and large ignored, and he was surprised to find he got lonely. After all, he was a people person. June remarked after only two days how unusually conversational he'd been at home, their normally comfortable silences punctuated with all the questions and comments he'd built up over the day. More than once, he caught himself daydreaming about being back in the conference room, teasing Lauren and getting gruffly reprimanded by Hughes. He woke with the terrifying realization that he actually missed the old man's angry eyebrows.

Finally, on Thursday, everything fell apart. It started when he was standing with Robertson and a few other agents as they went over a robbery. They were looking at the crime scene photos, he noticed a signature he recognized. Hit with inspiration, he forgot where he was, and didn't think twice about voicing his thoughts. For the first time, he spoke without being addressed first, and interrupted Robertson.

"That's Brent Ralway's work," he offered. The other agents looked at him in surprise. Then one of them – an older woman – rolled her eyes, and his heart sank. He sensed this was about to backfire.

"We know," she said in an irritated tone, and shot a look at her fellow agents. "And we didn't ask you." She turned to Robertson, and said shortly, "We'll discuss this later."

She and the other agents left Robertson and Neal alone. Neal saw the other man's jaw was tight, hand clenched around the file he was holding, and realized that his handler had just be snubbed because of him. He winced.

"I'm sorr- " he began, but Robertson cut him off.

"I don't want to hear it," the older man said flatly. "I'm just counting the days till you're gone." He shook his head and said in disgust, "Every agent in here who's ever had an axe to grind with me now has you, Caffrey. So why don't you just do me a favor, and pretend you don't exist."

Neal felt guilty, but he knew it didn't have to be this way if the office could learn to see him as something more than a spoiled convict who'd sweet-talked his way into a deal. He decided this awkward pause was his chance.

"Look, I get it. You don't want me here. I don't really want to be here either, but

we're stuck for the next three weeks," he said to the agent urgently, his blue eyes wide with sincerity. "Let me in on your cases. Talk to me about them, let me tell you what I think. We can work together – there's a reason white collar lets me hang around, you know? I'm an asset. I'm not meant to be a problem for you."

Robertson didn't answer right away, and for a moment Neal thought he had gotten through to him. Then the other man's eyes narrowed, and Neal realized that for all his distinguished reputation, Robertson was just as stubborn as his hostile colleagues.

"You're a criminal, Caffrey," the agent snapped coldly. "I don't care what the higher-ups think about you, I will not let you taint my work or this division any more than I have to. If you don't want to be a problem, you can just keep the hell out of my way for the next three weeks, you understand?"

Neal nodded slowly and kept his disappointment to himself. That afternoon, Robertson was called to interview witnesses in an apartment complex. He hadn't acknowledged Neal's presence since their earlier conversation, and didn't until they were standing in front of his car. Neal turned around and held his wrists together, familiar with the routine by now. Robertson placed the metal cuffs around his wrists and cinched them tighter than Neal could ever recall – the only physical indication of how angry the other man still was. Neal kept quiet the entire ride to the scene, but his anxiety spiked the moment he realized Robertson was going to leave him in the car. He'd done it before, and Neal hated it. The car was already stuffy. The ride had been stifling even with the air conditioner on, and now they were parked in direct sunlight. He knew Robertson wasn't supposed to be gone long, but he didn't relish the prospect of sweating in his suit for a half and hour or more.

"Ah… Agent Robertson?" he tried as Robertson got out of the car. The agent took the keys from the ignition and straightened his jacket. Neal raised his voice, though he knew the man could already hear him. "Would you crack open a – "

The front door slammed shut, and the perp locks clicked in place.

" – window," Neal finished with a sigh, and slumped back against the seat. Robertson clearly just wanted to forget about him. The conman leaned against the window, trying to get comfortable enough to take a nap, but the sweat trickling down his back made him keep shifting around. He wished he could see his watch to know how long he had to wait until Robertson was supposed to return. The sun was past its height, but the inside of the car was getting hotter as the minutes ticked by. Neal started listing everything he could remember stealing in order to pass the time.

It wasn't until he was remembering a particularly fine Monet forgery and his eyes started slipping closed against his will that Neal realized he was more than just uncomfortable. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he was dizzy and his head was pounding as his heart rate climbed. He forced himself to sit upright, and the car spun. When the world righted itself again, Neal had to entertain the ridiculous idea that not only had Robertson forgotten about him, but he was actually in danger from the heat in the car – which, at the moment, felt like a poorly-attended sauna. He bit his lip and looked out the windows for passers by. If he could catch someone's attention, he could either relay them a message to call Robertson or simply alarm them enough that they called the police. The second option didn't appeal to him overmuch – it fell too close to his "things that might send me back to prison" category – but he was feeling worse with each minute, so something had to give.

It didn't matter, because the street was deserted despite the population density of the area. Neal tried to consider his other options and realized that all of them would fall in the same category of prison-bound actions. He decided to try to wait a little bit longer for Robertson to show.

Then he passed out.

He came to a moment later, his eyes slamming open as he took fast, shallow breaths, truly frightened now. The conman knew he would lose consciousness again soon, for much longer this time, and couldn't help but shake his head at the sheer absurdity of his situation. After all the dangerous people he'd crossed, after four years in prison, one of the most desperate positions he'd ever been in was thanks to simple neglect. For a second, humiliation overwhelmed him. Being trapped in a hot car was supposed to be a tragedy that befell dogs and children. He was a grown man, and not just any grown man; he was Neal Caffrey, for heaven's sake.

He had to get out, but the only way out was to unlock the car. The only way to unlock the car was to hotwire it for that purpose. He needed both hands to do that, but they were cuffed. And he knew from previous searches when he was left in the car (on cooler days) that there was nothing lying around with which to pick his cuffs. So he'd have to slip them. Somehow.

Twenty minutes later, Neal lay on the back seat, out of breath. His wrists were on fire, sweat stinging his torn skin as he continued to twist his hands slowly back and forth. His right thumb was a mess of pain and had been since he'd first put enough pressure on it to dislocate the digit, but at least the blood coating it would provide some lubrication. Finally, he jerked hard and with a yell, his right hand was free.

He wanted to celebrate, but the air was feeling thicker and his head lighter with each minute. Doggedly, he launched himself into the front seat, fingers scrabbling on the hard plastic beneath the steering wheel, praying he could work out the wiring in the unfamiliar model. Fifteen crossed wires later – probably twelve too many, but given the fact that he was seeing double of each, Neal took no chances – he was finally free. He tumbled out of the back door and tasted sweet, cool air before collapsing against the shadiest wheel, losing consciousness almost immediately.

He came around to a iron grip hauling him up by his collar.

"Caffrey, what the hell did you do to my car?" Robertson snarled in his face. Neal tried to focus long enough for the world to stop spinning.

"Hot…" he managed slowly. "Had to… get out…"

"Too _hot_?" Robertson radiated fury. "I don't give a damn how comfortable you are, Caffrey. You messed with my car. I'm sending you back to prison. For good."

Neal felt himself about to faint again and fought it. He couldn't let it end like this, either – everything Peter had worked for, gone at the hands of some agent gone psychotic. He swallowed hard and forced out, "You… forgot. Heat… car like an… oven. Could've died."

Robertson considered for a moment, his grip loosening slightly. His furious brow relaxed, and he blinked a few times, mouth opening slightly. Neal could almost see the agent's mind working furiously, figuring out what had happened, his own culpability dawning on him. And Neal found that now that he wasn't fighting for his life, he was pretty pissed.

"You were only… supposed to be gone for… a little while," Neal snapped, still out of breath, but fueled by anger and the humiliation he'd felt earlier. His blue eyes pierced Robertson's stone gray. "Even that was… dangerous, with no windows cracked. I tried… to tell you and you _ignored _me. And then you… didn't come _back_. So yeah, I can't wait to tell your boss why… I _messed_ with your car."

Neal paused to try to properly fill his lungs with air and, too late, noticed the effect his words were having on Robertson. The agent's expression had been changing to one of embarrassment, but with Neal's threat, it fell into a cold mask. He let go of Neal, who slid back down to the pavement, too tired to prop himself up. The agent, meanwhile, dialed the office on his cell phone while he rummaged around in the trunk and pulled out a first aid kit.

Neal tensed when Robertson bent down, grabbed his right arm roughly and started winding gauze around the lacerations on his wrist. The conman hissed, but soon found something to distract him from his stinging wound – Robertson's report to his superior.

"Yes, sir, I've got a situation. Caffrey attempted to flee from custody. Slipped the cuffs and hotwired the car. Managed to catch him before he ran for it."

Neal's eyes widened in horror, and he opened his mouth to protest. Robertson didn't even look at him. The agent simply squeezed the wrist he was holding, hard, and continued talking while Neal gasped in pain and curled around the injured limb, too weak to pull free or try to strike at Robertson.

"No, he's only got some… ah… chafed wrists. Nothing serious… Yes. Yeah, in front of the complex. We'll see you in a few, sir."

Robertson hung up, but didn't release the pressure on Neal's wrist. Instead, he increased it, and addressed the conman calmly, as though the younger man wasn't breathing raggedly or trying desperately to twist away without making the pain worse.

"I'm going to make this work for both of us, Caffrey. The official story is going to be that you tried to run, but we're not going to make a big deal of it. You're going to get a slap on the wrist – maybe cut some of that leash of yours – and nothing else. I could send you back, but I won't."

"Let – go," Neal panted. His left hand scrabbled for purchase against the car, the dangling cuff clanking against its side. He prayed no permanent damage was being done.

"Just a minute. I've been trying not to make it too hard on you, Caffrey, you know that? I do my job, and that means no matter how much I think you deserve to rot in jail, I follow orders, and orders were to work with you."

"_Let – go!_"

"And I did forget you were out here, you're right. I got caught up in the case, but you were the last thing on my mind when there were innocent people who needed my attention. You know what? I'm not your babysitter, Caffrey, I'm a damn agent of the FBI."

"…_please_…"

Robertson looked down at the plea, and saw that Neal wasn't trying to fight any more, but on the verge of passing out. Robertson dropped his wrist and spoke in clipped, professional tones while Neal cradled his wrist to his chest and breathed hard through his nose.

"You're never coming out in the field with me again. You're going to take a corner desk and you're going to sit there, from nine to five, every day, whether I give you a case or not. When I ask you to do something, do it. Otherwise, you sit there, quietly. Don't talk to anyone but me. Understand?"

Neal forced himself to think of June and Mozzie and Kate and not going back to prison, instead of everything he wanted to say right then, and he ground out, "Yes."

"My subordinates, as you might have noticed, call me sir." The strange thing was, Robertson's tone wasn't snide or even satisfied – just the same cold, professional manner Neal would be treated to for the rest of his time in organized crime.

Neal exhaled slowly and tried to remember he'd had to deal with worse assholes in his life. And he had better people to get back to. Jones. Cruz. Hughes. Peter. They were the FBI he had to think of, not this cruel machine of an agent. He just had to imagine that he was talking to them. And joking, of course.

"Yes, sir."

---

Robertson finished wrapping his wrists and brought him back to the office, leaving him in the bullpen while he went to speak to his boss. For the first time, Grant Robertson found himself on the receiving end of one of his superior's disapproving glares, when he told the truth about Neal's injuries. For a minute the agent feared he might actually be in trouble, before his boss just grumbled about insurance liability and ordered him to take Caffrey to the hospital to get checked out. Otherwise, he agreed to Robertson's version of events without hesitation. Robertson returned to the bullpen in a much better mood, but found Caffrey wasn't there.

He looked at the two agents lounging casually at the desk where he'd left the conman. They had lazy, satisfied expressions on their faces, cats with their fill of canary.

"He's in the car," one of them said. "We just thought he needed a hand down there, given his state and all. You're headed to the hospital, right?"

Robertson knew exactly what kind of "hand" they'd given Neal. He hoped they hadn't broken any ribs – he wasn't planning on spending too long in the ER. He rolled his eyes at the two junior agents, but gave them a half-smile - it was nice, after all his enemies making fun of his pet criminal, to find that his allies were willing to step up, too. He nodded. "Yeah, Lenox Hill Hospital."

The other one smirked. "That's probably a good place for him right now."

---

June's kindness and the thought of Kate were the only things that got Neal through that night of an aching body and despair at the thought of the three weeks left to go. And the only thing that made him go back the next day was the thought that one day, he was going to rob the hell out of this bastard and every single one of those agents who thought the best way to show their loyalty to a favored superior was to beat up a bound, helpless criminal in the parking garage.

First, though, he had to get back to Peter.

Three long weeks of humiliating subservience later, he did. Neal had been waiting so long for the moment of reuniting with his partner that when it didn't go exactly as he'd planned, something in him broke. Neal saw Peter look at Robertson like the man was a genius instead of a psycho, listened to his angry accusations about Robertson's concocted story, and was shunted right back into the shell he'd constructed to survive the long weeks in an office full of people who thought he was less than a person.

Now, he sat at his kitchen table in June's house, head in his hands, thoughts bouncing around in his head with all the jumble and none of the fire of his usual brainstorms.

_Maybe I should just run for it. I can't face Peter after that. _

God, he missed Kate. Peter would catch him if he ran for her again – he'd made that clear. Neal couldn't go back to prison, not while she was in trouble, not while he could still save her. So he couldn't run. But he didn't know if he could ever work with Peter the same way again. He couldn't tell him what really happened – it was hard enough to remember all the events himself, and he had no proof to back them up. If he told Peter and Peter didn't believe him, Neal didn't think he could take it.

_ Maybe I can transfer… Agent Rice wasn't too bad in the end…_

Knock, knock, knock. June's usual delicate pattern. Neal cleared his throat and called, "Coming," then walked to the door, composing himself. He smoothed his hair and pulled the door open to find June standing there, as he'd expected. But right behind her stood Peter. Neal froze, feeling cornered. Why had Peter needed to come to his home?

Reflexively, he stepped back and stuck his hands in his pockets. Maybe Robertson had made good on his prison threat after all. Peter swallowed, suddenly wondering if this was a good idea after all.

"You two need to talk," June said softly, giving Neal her wise, encouraging smile when she saw his pleading look. "I'll be back in a while."

She shut the door, leaving Neal and Peter alone.

* * *

**A/N**: Reviews are still received with great love! In the conclusion, Peter and Neal have A Conversation, and those two little junior agent twerps from organized crime just might get what's coming to them...

Also, I'm still a bumbling newbie, so I have a rookie question: I can't see my story on the White Collar page, only when I search my author name. Is this:

A) Normal, I'll never be able to see my own stories, B) a setting that I can change or C) a glitch I should write to about?

I greatly appreciate your seasoned advice. Happy Daylight Savings!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: New policy – no more posting things until I've finished them entirely. Life is too hectic and likely to leave wonderful readers hanging. I do apologize, and hope you'll enjoy this last chapter.

* * *

The door snicked softly shut. Neal wondered how the brilliant lies and smooth conversation that came to him instantly in the face of guns and violence had abandoned him so easily in this safe, silent room. The answer, of course, was that Peter was not some nameless mark but a friend… or something like that. Neal really had no idea where he stood with Peter at the moment. He had the sense to sit down so the other man wouldn't see his legs shaking

Peter, for his part, leaned awkwardly against an armchair. He'd spent the ride over to June's trying to diffuse his anger at Robertson, but seeing Neal stripped of his natural ease with other people made him furious all over again. It was hard knowing he'd added to the problem, just by assuming he knew what had happened, assuming that Neal was to blame. It was harder not knowing how to make it better without making it worse. Peter wished he had brought Elizabeth with him, but both she and June had insisted they needed time together, alone. He imagined her knowing eyes and resigned smile. _Honey, just tell him how you feel._

"Neal, I'm so sorry," Peter said evenly. Neal's face opened up in true shock – an expression Peter couldn't recall seeing on him before. Of all the openings Neal was waiting for, an apology came out of left field. He hastily tried to get himself together.

"What for?" the conman asked, his voice only a little hoarse.

"June told me you came home a mess the day you hotwired the car," Peter said, resting his hands on one of the chairs, meeting Neal's wary gaze. "She was worried about you. She looked in your file. She told me everything. I know you were just trying to save yourself, and I shouldn't have jumped on you like that."

Neal's heart leapt at hearing his partner's concern, but it was hard to get the image of Peter's angry face out of his head. He hated to admit that Robertson had been able to taint him like this, but for the first time, he'd felt scared of Peter. He couldn't forget the way the agent's harsh words had made him feel like he was less than a person all over again.

Peter was getting nervous. Neal was just as unresponsive as when he'd been reprimanded that morning. Elizabeth popped into his head again. _Don't give up, honey. Tell him everything._

"You need to know, I wasn't angry because I cared about Robertson or any of his crap. I…" He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. Finally he admitted, "It scared me, when I read what you did, the first time. Hotwiring a car - I didn't want to think you could do something so stupid and get sent back when I wasn't even there to stop it. I don't think I could forgive myself if that happened. I don't even know if I can forgive myself for this."

Neal was still quiet, trying to process everything. He wanted so badly for everything to go back to normal.

Carefully, Peter reached out a hand and laid it on Neal's shoulder. Neal started slightly, but Peter didn't take it off. Neal looked up at the agent's worried brown eyes. It finally struck the conman that he didn't belong to Robertson anymore. And for the first time in four weeks, he just said what he felt, too.

"I really missed you, Peter."

Peter's stomach clenched. He tightened his grip on Neal's shoulder. "I should have been there for you, Neal. I won't let this happen again."

Neal gave a tired smile, suddenly feeling bone-deep exhausted - like something was unwinding in him he'd forgotten was even tight. "I know you won't."

They were quiet for a moment, enjoying the return of their friendship, until Peter realized that healing their rift was just the beginning. He looked at Neal and said seriously, "Neal, I want to go after the people who beat you. Was that Robertson, too?"

Neal was taken by surprise at first, before he remembered that night. "How did you – oh, June." He sighed. "Yeah, it was them, Peter, but there's no evidence to prove it. They didn't even record my injuries from it at the hospital."

"He beat you regularly and left no trace behind?"

"Regularly?" For once, it was Neal's turn to be confused. "Peter, it was only that once. A couple of his buddies decided to teach me a lesson that night, in the parking lot, I guess since they knew I'd be going to a hospital anyway. They might be assholes, but they were doing it to protect their leader." Neal swallowed, remembering.

_Another fist landed in Neal's gut, and he fought for air through the arm clamped over his mouth. He wanted to struggle harder, but each tug on the cuffs was another stab of pain._

"_Grant Robertson's the best agent this division has. Scum like you has no right to get in between him and our boss. I don't care what kind of deal you cut. You don't deserve to get off this easy while he gets torn a new one."_

_Neal never got a chance to explain. They hit him again, and again…_

Neal forced himself back to the present, and tried to remind himself of the point he was making. "They were hotheaded and stupid, but they didn't just beat me up for the hell of it. And since I… behaved… from then on, it didn't happen again." He shrugged.

"June said you acted like it had happened before," Peter said grimly, refusing to drop the subject.

Neal gave a half-frown and shifted his weight slightly, not looking at Peter. It took him a moment to realize Neal Caffrey felt… _awkward._ Another emotion he never thought he'd witness in Neal.

"That was the only time Robertson and his pals beat me," Neal stated firmly. "And there is honestly no way to prove it. It's not worth the trouble."

Peter realized what Neal said was probably true. Then he caught the careful wording of his first statement. Trying not to sound too forceful, Peter asked casually, "So when else were you beaten, then?"

Neal sighed and almost rolled his eyes. So much for trying to save Peter's feelings. "Peter, you didn't put me in time out for four years. I went to prison, which, as you know, is full of criminals, and they like pecking orders. Everyone's on the bottom at some point, including me. When else do you _think _I was beaten?"

Peter put his head in his hands and groaned. "I'm not doing so hot today, am I? That's two times now I've left you to get your ass kicked. Only difference was the jumpsuits." Peter lifted his head up a gave Neal a crooked smile. "And I bet Robertson was a way bigger asshole than any con."

Neal laughed for the first time in a month. It was strange, but bringing up his time in prison made him feel better – making him recall a time when Peter was the bad guy, not his friend. It reminded him how glad he was that that wasn't the case any more. And it made Neal realize that if he could laugh about those brutal times now, he'd be laughing about Robertson in a couple years, too. He couldn't erase those past three weeks overnight, but in time, it would be okay.

Peter's face grew more serious again, and he met Neal's eyes. "I missed you too, partner." He stood to leave, then turned back with a grin. "First thing tomorrow, let's see about getting those two miles back, huh? Don't want to have to drive you everywhere."

Neal grinned back, the sparkle back in his eyes at Peter's use of that word. _Partner._ "I'd like that."

* * *

Peter got to the office early the next morning, to see Hughes before Neal got there. The superior looked up in surprise when Peter knocked on his door – he was usually the one dropping in on Peter, not the reverse. From the dark set of Peter's face he suspected it had to do with Caffrey – no one else had the ability to get under the agent's skin like Caffrey could. Hughes was right, but not in the way he anticipated.

"Robertson abused Neal," Peter growled the moment the office door was closed. "He failed at everything a handler is supposed to do. Robertson hurt Neal, and his subordinates hurt him, and not a damn person in that whole office did anything!" Peter took a breath, and said more evenly, "I want that man to crash and burn. Sir." Another breath, and finally, through a tight smile: "Just thought I'd give you some warning."

Hughes' only initial response was to raise his eyebrows. "Good morning to you too, Peter." He took a sip of coffee, then slowly rubbed his chin with one hand. "I trust you, Peter. But those are some major accusations there. Just yesterday you were worried Caffrey had been a problem while you were gone."

"There is physical evidence," Peter snapped. "Pictures, and if that's not enough, I'm positive he's got scars."

Hughes frowned and put down his cup. He'd assumed Peter meant Caffrey's ego had taken a beating, not his body. "You meant literally? Caffrey got injured and they covered it up?"

"Caffrey didn't _get _injured," Peter corrected his superior. "He was forced to break his own thumb, and then beaten by agents of the organized crime division, while cuffed and already injured." Hughes stood up, and Peter raised a hand in a placating gesture. "I know it sounds insane, but - "

"Insane to happen to a member of the FBI," Hughes broke in, then sighed. "But for a convict…" He shook his head and admitted, "I believe you, Peter. It's bad, but I can't pretend not to have bent the rules for a criminal in custody once or twice myself." He gave Peter a look that was the closest to pity he'd ever seen on Hughes' face. "And I did it because I knew my agency would have my back if someone ever came after me for it, just like organized crime will have theirs when you do."

Peter went silent, realizing Hughes was right. He'd forgotten, to some extent, that Neal was still a felon. Neal had been right before – the only evidence was Neal's word, and June's witnessing his injuries. It would never be enough to convict Robertson, especially when the whole division was implicated. Then Peter remembered the fear on Neal's face the morning before, and his fists clenched.

"He can't just get away with that," Peter ground out in frustration. "We owe Neal better."

For a long moment there was silence. Suddenly, Hughes crossed his arms and nodded firmly. "Then we'll need to get some of our own evidence."

Now Peter raised his eyebrows. "Sir?"

Hughes just smiled. "I think you and Caffrey ought to come to a scene with me later today. Trust me, it'll be worth the trip."

* * *

Neal leaned back in the front seat for a moment, closing his eyes and savoring the feeling of being trusted enough just to ride like an adult. He hadn't even bothered to ask Peter where they were going, and he chose to see that as a result of his excitement instead of his instinct to obey commands without question.

"Neal, I'm not sure if you're going to be ready for this," Peter said to him suddenly as the car slowed, nearing the scene.

Neal chuckled. "Peter, I think I'm alright to look at crime scenes again. I've kind of been itching to get out of the office."

"This isn't just a scene, Neal," Peter admitted quietly. Neal turned to face him. "Robertson and organized crime are going to be here."

Neal stiffened and lost his smile, pulse rising. "Peter, I never want to see them again."

"I know," Peter said quickly. "But Neal, the longer we wait, the harder it will be to get them for what they did to you."

Neal gave him a bewildered stare. "Why do we have to get them? Why can't we just leave it alone?"

Peter wanted to shake Neal. _Of course we have to get them! What part of _partner _don't you get? How could I ever let this go?_ But he reminded himself Neal was still on edge, and instead gripped Neal's shoulder. Neal looked at him warily.

"Because you're a good person and you deserve justice, Neal. Just like the people we help every day."

Neal exhaled slowly, his eyes darting back and forth between Peter's gaze and the dashboard. Finally, he swallowed hard, straightened up, and nodded. "What do I have to do?"

Jacob's Jewelry was a flourishing enterprise in uptown Manhattan, successful mostly because it was funded by the Mob, which was no secret to the FBI. What was new, however, were the accusations of forged jewelry and counterfeit gems by some of the store's top clients, who were almost all themselves wrapped up in some sort of illegal activity. The break in the night before was a tangled mess of jurisdiction and famous names in the underground world – the perfect battlefield for the various divisions of the FBI.

Organized crime had gotten to the scene early, and Grant Robertson was delegating various witness statements to his crew when white collar showed up. Robertson allowed himself a hint of satisfaction when he saw Caffrey trailing behind the other agents, clearly still in the role of convict rather than consultant. Hughes, Burke and Jones were making a beeline for the vault, leaving Lauren lingering in the doorway with Caffrey, looking disgusted. It was clear she'd been left to watch the convict, and wasn't pleased about it. A junior organized crime agent – Fuller, one of Robertson's boys – brushed by her and she grabbed his arm.

"Look, could you do me a favor?" she muttered.

Fuller gave her an easy grin. "What can I do for you, sweetheart?"

"Keep an eye on Caffrey for a few minutes? I'm sick of getting left to babysit this guy every time while Jones gets to go in with the senior agents. I'm just going to check it out," she said. She winked at Fuller. "Help a girl out?"

Fuller was still nodding while she slipped out of the main room. When she was gone, he turned to Neal, his cocky grin still in place.

"You didn't tell them, huh?" he asked casually. Neal kept his gaze on the jewelry cases.

"Tell them about what?" he replied dully. "There's nothing to tell. Who's going to believe me?"

Fuller snorted. "You've got those white collar guys eating out of your hand, last I checked. Why wouldn't they listen to you?"

Neal suddenly gave him a piercing glare. "Because who the hell would believe bonafied agents of the FBI would be stupid enough to beat up a wounded man in their custody for no good reason?"

Fuller's face darkened in anger. He glanced furtively around to ensure no other agents were nearby, and Neal remembered Fuller was the one who had balled up Neal's tie and forced it into the convict's mouth when he got tired of Neal trying to bite his arm hard enough for the agent to let him go. Resourceful, Neal had thought dryly as he'd struggled not to choke.

Now Fuller leaned in, confident no one around could overhear him. "We had a damn good reason, Caffrey. You screwed over our boss, making a break for it like you did." Fuller grabbed Neal's upper arm, and Neal tensed. "I might get it, if you were in a desperate situation. But you've got a sweet deal you don't even deserve, and you couldn't just keep yourself in line. I think a hell of a lot of agents might be stupid enough to beat you up like we did."

Neal smiled humorlessly. "In a parking lot, while I was cuffed, and already going to the hospital? Really?"

Fuller smirked right back. "Absolutely. _Especially_ if you're injured from your own stupid attempt to escape."

Neal wrenched his arm out of Fuller's grip. "I never attempted to escape."

"Fuller, go get Cruz back here to watch her own damn convict. I'll stay with him." Robertson had come over without either Neal or Fuller noticing, clearly sensing the volatile situation. Fuller stepped back smartly and nodded to Robertson, then headed to the vault with everyone else.

Neal was alone with Robertson in the front of the store, and all he wanted was to look at the floor and wait for the chance to go home. Instead, he decided on the same course as before – simply telling the truth.

"I still have scars," Neal said to the floor, but loud enough for Robertson to catch it. "On my wrists, because of you. Doctor said they'll fade some, but they're permanent." Neal shifted his sleeve just enough so that Robertson could see one of the purplish stripes. "White collar thinks I got them because I'm an idiot. I'm the only one who will ever know the real reason they're there."

Robertson didn't react visibly. His face remained the same, so no one else in the store would notice anything unusual about the situation. But the agent talked, and that's all Neal was after.

"Well, I'll know. If I'd never been saddled with you, I never would have had to lie to my boss like that. Just forgetting, once, about you in the car? That could have cost me my career. A whole damn cover up just because you couldn't take some heat. Hell, Caffrey, you took the beating better than the damn car. Your pansy ass nearly destroyed everything. You think I'll forget that?"

Neal shook his head, feeling lightheaded with relief. "No, you definitely will not." He looked up and met Robertson's suspicious grey with his own piercing blue, truly smiling. "Sir."

Robertson suddenly realized Fuller was taking way, way too long to get back from the vault. He turned to the back of the jewelry store, only to find Hughes, Peter, and Jones walking out with triumphant looks on their faces.

Neal lifted a silver pen out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Jones, who grinned, clasped him on the shoulder, and went to the car with it. Peter squeezed Neal's other shoulder in silent support while Hughes turned to face a furious Robertson.

"Agent Grant Robertson, you are suspended from duty, effective immediately. Any changes to this are pending further investigation into your abuse of a convict in your custody. Right now, you're going back to the office, with us." Hughes got closer to Robertson, whose face was already ashen, and said more softly, "No one messes with my people."

* * *

The glittering towers of Manhattan were rosy in the sunset, and Neal felt the glow reflected in his heart. He'd stepped out for some air while Peter, Elizabeth, Jones, Cruz, Hughes and June sipped coffee around his table and let the gourmet meal he'd prepared them settle in their stomachs. Neal had invited Mozzie, but his longtime friend was still chary of being in the same room as so many agents for a whole dinner. He'd promised Neal celebratory bagels the next morning.

Neal turned his back on the view to gaze inwards at his friends. He was amused to see Hughes and June deep in discussion at one end of the table – perhaps rehashing cases where they'd once been on opposite sides, back in Byron's glory days. Lauren and Elizabeth were teasing Jones about something, judging by his indignant expression and their frequent laughter. Peter was trying to stifle his own chuckles, clearly finding it too funny to save his junior agent just yet.

Even with the warmth of his friends filling his new home, Neal felt an ache in his chest. Kate was still out there, somewhere – maybe even in one of the buildings stretched out behind him. He couldn't forget that. Neal started to turn back to the view when Peter caught his eye and motioned to him to come inside. Neal hesitated a moment, then let his worry go for the moment. His friends – and a beautifully crafted chocolate mousse – were waiting for him.

* * *

**A/N**: Thanks so much for sticking with me thus far, and a million extra thanks for your brilliant, patient advice. Like I said above, I'll post again once I've completed my next story – which right now looks like it might be a oneshot involving June and Hughes, as I'm very fond of those two. Let me know if you have any suggestions for future stories!

For those of you who reviewed: You are amazing and I truly appreciate the time you take out of your day to give me feedback. Those little alerts are what remind me to keep at it. I am hugging you all in my head and sending you happy thoughts.

'Till next time. 3


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